


A Turn of the Page

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bickering, Books, Javert Lives, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 09:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18518836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: This last book laid into place on the proper pile, Javert raises his gaze to Valjean’s. "Your library," he says, in the crisp tones of judgement that only a police inspector could hope to intone, "is an affront to the very concept of order."[Javert reorganizes Valjean's library. It is easier said than done.]





	A Turn of the Page

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite thanks to Sarah for the beta, Andrew for cheerleading me through the painful throes of editing, and Vincent for dragging me into valvert hell in the first place. You guy are honestly the best.

Javert has almost half the bookshelf emptied out onto the floor when the sound of a throat being cleared in the doorway draws his attention. A mug of tea in each hand, Valjean stands in the doorway to the modest study— _his_ modest study, Javert has to remind himself. For this is Valjean’s house, here at Rue de l’Homme Arme; no matter how Javert has been spending the majority of his time here, or how Valjean has tolerated his numerous and ornery intrusions, all the ways in which Javert has unintentionally infiltrated Valjean’s life.

The books, of course, being one of them.

"Are you looking for something in particular," Valjean says dryly, "or merely browsing?"

Javert has paused with a book in his hands; he sets it upon the growing stack by his knees with meticulous care. More stacks have sprung up around him like mushrooms, neat rows on the floor, an arrangement on the windowsill, and on the sagging armchair which hurts Valjean’s back every time he sits in it. Ridiculous, that a man who had accumulated so much wealth should only own one comfortable chair. These days hardly an evening passes without the two of them locked in a battle of belligerent courtesy, each insisting the other take the better chair.

This last book laid into place on the proper pile, Javert raises his gaze to Valjean’s. "Your library," he says, in the crisp tones of judgement that only a police inspector could hope to intone, "is an affront to the very concept of order."

"I never much needed a system."

"I can only guess that you never needed to locate a specific text. Any attempt would have been futile."

Valjean steps into the room and sets one of the cups on the least precarious of the book piles stacked on the chair. The dust stirred up from Javert's efforts thicken the air, and the swaths of sunlight from the window make it seem as dense as honey. "I hardly have so many volumes that I would need longer than a span of moments to find what I needed."

Javert makes a noise of indignation in the back of his throat, sitting back on his heels to reach the cup of tea Valjean has brought him. Free of milk or sugar, as he always takes it, though Valjean has never asked. Between the two of them, Javert is not the only one capable of careful observation. "It is the principle of the thing. I cannot hope to pass my time in this room staring at this wall of chaos without losing my wits, no matter how you might feel about it yourself."

"Of course, you should feel free to arrange things as makes you most comfortable," Vajean says with that infuriating goodwill—it is only the slight tugging at one corner of his mouth, the deepening of the crows’ feet around his eyes, that gives his wry mood away.

"Hmph. I believe I shall." Javert sets his cup of tea back on the stack of books and returns his attention to the shelves. "Alphabetical by author seems the most logical choice."

"As you say."

There is something so maddening about Valjean's limitless reserve of patience; despite his resolution to bring nothing into Valjean’s life but benefit, Javert finds something within him rising to the surface in answer. A part of him which cannot help but try and needle Valjean to the breaking point. He has not yet managed such a thing and does not particularly expect to.

"The chair is next to go," Javert calls at his retreating back, and is awarded with the sound of Valjean's chuckle, rich and rare, moving down the hallway back to him.

* * *

 

  
  
It is, of course, not as simple as that. For a period of days Valjean's study is in total disarray, though Javert is careful to neaten it as best as he's able when he leaves each night for his own rooms. The Spartan starkness of his apartment feels almost barren in comparison; Valjean owns little, but the touches of his life are all over this house. Javert returns to his own rooms and finds them somehow lacking. There can be no order in a vacuum.

And yet when Javert has finally completed his efforts to alphabetize Valjean's shelves, and has slid the final book into place with a sense of swelling and all-encompassing satisfaction, he turns around to find Valjean staring at the fruits of his effort with a look of thoughtful uncertainty.

"I shall need a stool the next time I require anything from Bretonne," he muses aloud; and that is all it takes. With a growl of irritation, wholly ignoring Valjean's protests and assurances that to keep a footstool beneath the armchair will be no trouble at all, Javert begins to remove the books once more.

"If the system does not benefit you then it is of no use," Javert says, and after a moment Valjean sighs and moves to help him clear the shelves once more.

He is smiling, in spite of it all. Javert is not wholly certain why Valjean tolerates him and has not yet gathered the courage to ask.

* * *

 

  
  
It becomes a comfortable point of contention between them, for a time. When Javert arrives for dinner after his shift they discuss the merits of sorting by title; by genre; by length (Valjean's suggestion, which nearly caused Javert to drop his tea cup in agitation). Weeks pass, and there is not a day when there is not at least one orderly stack of books on the floor, rigid and straight-edged as a turret.

During their evenings together Valjean reads quietly; and when Javert, sitting in silence in his chair in the darker corner, rises to stoke the fire in the narrow grate, he at times wanders from there to the half-stocked bookshelves, to kneel on the floor and idly arrange them in the companionable quiet. Naturally, Valjean has a habit of acquiring more books right when Javert has almost finished, which of course requires Javert to start entirely from scratch.

"I recall you do not particularly enjoy reading," Valjean says. They sit at the dinner table, the remains of their supper of bread and sausage and cheese spread out before them. Valjean's housekeeper has been sent home; Valjean insists on doing the washing up himself, and Javert, grousing, has nonetheless taken to helping. As such the house is quiet except for their voices.

"It is not about the books," Javert returns. "You must have _some_ form of organization."

"I did."

"Placing a book wherever one feels best at the time and resolving to remember for future reference is not a _system_ , Valjean."

"And why not? Certainly it is unconventional, yet surely a system can best be defined by those who participate in it?"

Javert has already opened his mouth to hotly debate the point when the glint of the candlelight in Valjean's eyes gives his teasing away. Javert's jaw clenches; he rips off another hunk of bread with more violence than strictly necessary. "You are an impossible old man."

"And you are welcome to wrestle with the question of my library for as long as it brings you satisfaction."

"It will satisfy me when I have arrived at a solution which also satisfies _you_ ," Javert says. "And do not tell me that you will be equally happy with whatever I might devise. I refuse to be content with that. I demand you make an effort to be more discerning."

Valjean gets a canny look in his eyes that on any other man Javert would find much less dear. "Well, then, if we are on the subject—I am beginning to doubt whether this latest method of sorting the books by subject matter is best."

"Not two days ago you said it suited you."

"Yes, but I can never seem to recall the order in which those subjects are arranged..."

Javert groans, tossing his napkin on the table in exasperation. “Then we shall need to start again.”

“We don’t _need_ to,” Valjean reasons. “I admit, I did not expect you to indulge in my whims even for this long.”

"I am offended you would ever think I would be satisfied with anything less than the greatest efficiency possible."

“Yes, I suppose that was foolish of me.”

“Precisely. You are quite foolish. Therefore you must help me devise whatever foolish system of organization will suit you best.” He tries to keep his tone stern, even in the face of Valjean’s growing smile. It is a challenge.

And that is the crux of their conversation for much of the night afterward, though in the end it is the companionship and not the debate which keeps Javert fully diverted; until they retire to the study, to read and to riddle out the puzzle of the books in companionable silence.

* * *

 

 

“But surely there is some reason.”

Javert looks up with a glare. The evening is dragging on, the candles burning low; the conversation, usually all the more enjoyable for its contentiousness, has amused him less since he became its subject.

“Does one need a prescribed reason to dislike something?” he retorts. His knees are beginning to ache after over an hour of kneeling among the books on the floor. From his place in the chair—the _good_ chair—Valjean watches him, his eyes dark.

“I believe that is generally the case, yes.”

“Not so. Likes and dislikes are as often based purely on a person’s innate sensibilities.” Javert sits back on his heels to tick his words off on his fingers. “Despite being overall an infuriatingly agreeable man, you are not fond of radishes, the smell of honeysuckle, and that one particular shade of orange. I cannot imagine there is a logical reason for each of those.”

In the pause which follows this accounting, Javert finds himself fixed with a strange expression. It initially appears akin to surprise, or even disbelief; but there is a softening at the edge of Valjean’s eyes, a turning-up at the corners of his mouth, that makes something warm and heavy sink into the pit of Javert’s stomach and settle there like wine.

“What?” he snaps, yanking more books off the shelf and stacking them with no care or affection into a neat-edged pile.

“It is only that I hadn’t realized you had been so observant of my preferences,” Valjean says, still smiling. “Also, I believe that shelf is the one you had already organized.”

With a curse, Javert realizes this is true. He begins to put them back, forcing his rebellious hands into something more like calm. “I am—was—an officer of the law. It was my duty to be observant.”

“Do you often catalogue the dietary preferences of the men you arrest?”

“Now you are being annoying,” Javert says, for he has no other excuse, and because it makes Valjean chuckle in that way he is coming to appreciate. The silence becomes companionable again; whatever cord of tension stretched between them slackens. Javert is just about to sink back into the world of his organizing when Valjean clears his throat again.

“I dislike radishes because I find them too bitter,” Valjean says at last. “Orange because recalls to mind a particular sort of fungus which grew in the woods near Montreuil. And the smell of honeysuckle because it grew along the eaves of the house where my sister and her children lived.” His eyes grow distant; a slight frown notches the skin between his brows. “The children used to suck on the flowers, when there was nothing else to eat.”

Moments pass. Valjean must have come back to himself and noticed Javert’s expression, for an apologetic smile crosses his face. “That is to say,” he says gently, “that there is often _some_ reason for why people feel the way that they do.”

“Not always,” Javert says, his voice rougher than he had intended.

“Not always,” Valjean concedes. “I did not mean to pry.”

“Yes you did,” Javert says, shooting Valjean a look that turns his smile slightly less forlorn. “You’re becoming quite the busybody in your old age. I shudder to think of what you and your housekeeper chatter about when I’m not around to keep you honest.”

Valjean laughs again, loud and uninhibited. Something in Javert’s chest eases, ever so slightly. “Yes, there is arguably no one better suited to that task,” Valjean says, still smiling. “And none I would prefer.”

Javert snorts, aiming for derision; but he also keeps his eyes on the books before him, hiding his lips until they behave themselves once more.

 

* * *

 

Javert has been made aware, in the time since his ill-fated plunge into the Seine and subsequent rebirth, of his own tendency to focus (perhaps over-much) on a single task, until it is either completed or obsolete. As cautious as he is now of his own impulses, he does not believe this to be a negative one, despite its historical negative outcomes; it is only that his mind is ever balanced on a point, like a metal top, requiring all its motion and energy to be channeled into that single focus in order to remain upright.

There are worse things for him to devote his razor-sharp attention to than ensuring Valjean’s library is arranged in the most productive way possible; Javert knows this from a lifetime of experience. And Valjean, for some reason, seems content to tolerate him; more than content.

It is strange, to be permitted to leave his mark on Valjean’s home. It is still strange that Valjean permits him here at all.

And yet when the opportunity arises to replace the weathered armchair with a modest and infinitely more comfortable settee, Javert’s qualms about invading Valjean’s life do not once come to mind. He has the new couch installed and banishes the old chair to the bedroom which once belonged to Cosette, and now remains largely unused. He oversees its installation with his arms crossed over his chest and a sense of satisfaction. For the first time in a long while he finds himself wanting for a pinch of snuff.

Valjean wonders aloud at the necessity of it all, staring at the new object in the study with a brow furrowed in something like confusion; and yet after a handful of nights rising from his seat without the customary grimace of pain, Valjean voices no more doubts.

Perhaps small things, such as a back which does not complain so sharpy before bed or a well-organized bookshelf, are all that Javert can offer; but if that is so, he will offer them freely.

 

* * *

 

 

Some days, they are required to dine with Cosette and her new husband. Valjean assures him that it is _not_ a requirement, no matter how irrefutable Javert’s arguments to the contrary are.

“You do not have to accompany me,” Valjean says. Something about the studied blankness of his face, belied by a faint twitching at his lips, suggests that he already knows Javert’s answer.

“I do,” Javert says seriously, sitting at the kitchen table while Valjean shrugs on his coat. “For if I do not, then the boy will no doubt prattle on about this or that for hours on end, and you will be too polite to interrupt him; and, most crucially, you will then come home and be exasperated, and take three days to finally complain.”

“I never complain,” Valjean says with a gleam in his eye.

“Hmmph. And you never lie, either.”

Valjean has finished his preparations; he brushes off what must be imaginary dust from his waistcoat as Javert inspects him. With some wheedling, Cosette has managed to convince him to invest in a less threadbare wardrobe, leveraging Marius and his family as an excuse; Valjean’s waistcoat is cream-colored, with flowers embroidered in a shade so close to the fabric they are little more than pale shadows. His clothes fit him finely; he is healthy, and well. His curly white hair is a cloud around his head; his face, which Javert has seen so often creased with pain or worry or doubt, is smooth.

The word leaps to mind, unbidden and unexpected: beautiful. Valjean is beautiful like this, in the sunlight of his small kitchen with a look of happiness on his face, as naturally as if no other expression could possibly belong there.

And then Valjean lifts his head to meet Javert’s gaze, and even knowing so well the signs of a guilty man, Javert looks away far too quickly without even knowing what he is guilty of.

“That coat is hideous,” he says, finding his mouth strangely dry. “How you managed to replace your last with one the exact same shade of yellow—”

“We will be late,” Valjean says, the laughter seeping through his words, and so Javert rises, steps up to Valjean’s side, and they go.

 

* * *

 

 

If her father is taking to his new circumstances like a vine tentatively climbing a trestle, Cosette is an explosion of roses in the first flush of spring. Javert had not known her before, had only seen her wan and dark under the eyes, sitting beside Marius’s sickbed too afraid to even touch his hand. In the months since then, she has seemed to expand; her laugh louder, her gestures broader, her smile stretching far across her lips from the moment her father and Javert step into her home.

“We are exceedingly busy here,” Cosette says, her hand resting atop Marius’s on the table. “Setting up a household is more deeply involved than I could have imagined. But tell me Papa, how are you passing your time?”

Her hand has barely left Marius’s, even to eat. Soon, Javert thinks idly, Valjean will be a grandfather. Such is the natural way of things. And the thought of Valjean sitting in a garden, a babe in his lap and another at his side, smiling and telling them of the plants and flowers, at peace—it puts a strange twisting in the pit of Javert’s stomach.

“Not so different, my dear,” Valjean says in answer to Cosette’s question. “I pass hours in my garden, I give alms; I spend time in quiet contemplation and prayer.”

“You spend so much time at Rue de l’Homme Arme,” Cosette says, a falsely-chiding tone entering her voice. “Surely not all of it is in prayer.”

When Valjean glances at him sidelong Javert knows what’s coming. “Actually, Monsieur Javert has been assisting me to reorganize the library there.”

“The library! I remember it well,” Cosette says, her hand squeezing Marius’s. “You used to read to me often—Papa has such a fine reading voice, does he not Monsieur?”

Javert takes a bite of his croissant with the intent of buying time, but instead the silence simply drags. “I would not know, Madame,” he says at last. His mouth feels mealy, and dry. “Your father has never read to me.”

The idea is a strange one. It is easy to imagine how Valjean would read to his daughter; how she would snuggle in his lap as a child, or sit quietly at his side with her feet tucked under her as a young woman; perhaps her head might have rested at times on his shoulder. And yet it is strange, the idea of Valjean reading to _him_ —of Valjean’s steady voice weaving in the air around them, his strong hands gentle on the pages of a book, as delicate and kind as they are with his beloved plants. And Javert—Javert, sitting on the opposite end of the couch, simply watching. Javert, sitting beside him, close enough to touch; Javert sitting on the floor with his brow resting against Valjean’s knee—

He clears his throat loudly, interrupting whatever tangent Marius has begun to ramble off on. Eyes turn on him expectantly.  “A tickle,” he says by way of explanation, gesturing vaguely at his throat; thankfully he is no longer scrutinized, for there is a heat creeping into his face that he cannot be certain will go unnoticed.

“Ah, that reminds me, Papa,” Cosette says, mercifully directing their attention away. “Marius has recommended a book to me which has proved most interesting, and I immediately thought you might like to read it. I shall have it brought down immediately.”

“That would suit me well,” Valjean says, and then turns to shoot Javert a wry look. “Assuming there is room for it in our latest system of organization.”

“I am certain I can find room,” Javert says, a touch begrudgingly; and as sharp and sudden as the fall of a guillotine Valjean’s hand is on his arm. Javert’s gaze jerks up into his, startled, and yet rather than flinching away his body seems to relax into the warm touch before he even registers it. Valjean’s eyes are fond, sparkling; through the fabric of his shirtsleeve Javert cannot feel the calluses on his fingers, but he is thinking of them. Perhaps he is even imagining them, their rough touch dragging over skin rather than cloth.

For all his methodical control, the image is surprisingly difficult to put from his mind.

 

* * *

 

Cosette cannot easily find the book she has in mind, though Javert is coolly satisfied to see that M. Gillenormand does not share Valjean’s apathy towards organizing his bookshelves; and so she promises to have it sent to Rue de l’Homme Arme as soon as it can be located.

The next morning Basque arrives on their doorstep with an entire shelf’s worth of books, neatly packaged into a crate which the poor man seems barely able to heft even the short distance from the fiacre to their door.

“Oh, but this is wonderful!” Valjean cries, as he easily carries the heavy box to their library. “She has provided us with all of her Balzac, as well as some Diderot and Stendhal.”

“She has provided _you_ with those authors,” Javert grouses, trailing after Valjean into the sunlit room. He injects more irritation into his voice than perhaps he truly feels; otherwise he might find it difficult not to smile at the way Valjean so effortlessly says _us_. “She has provided me with an entirely new problem of where to fit them in.”

“I have every confidence that you’ll manage,” Valjean says, bumping his shoulder gently with a wry twist of his lips. Javert does not lean into that brief touch. He is, however, painfully aware of its absence when Valjean draws away again.

 

* * *

 

"It seemed like such an extravagance, at first."

Valjean is staring up at the empty wall of shelves, his expression wistful. Between his countenance and the curly fringe of his white hair, he is all softness. The arm which presses against Javert's, however, is solid and warm. After a brief stint in sorting the books, they both have found themselves sitting on the floor, their backs to the settee; despite the way the wooden edge is digging in to his spine, he finds himself quite content to remain precisely where he is.

"After Montreuil, I never desired to have many possessions of my own,” Valjean continues. “It seemed frivolous, when necessity might require me to leave it all behind at a moment's notice."

"On account of me," Javert says dully, unable to let the obvious remain unsaid. How many years that his face was the demon which appeared to Valjean’s nightmares; his the breath which panted on the back of Valjean’s neck? Valjean has already, miraculously, granted him forgiveness which he does not deserve. Perhaps living with the shame of accepting it is the penance he must bear.

Valjean's eyes shift to him. For a moment Javert is caught up in their warm regard. Drowning in it. The heat against his shoulder blooms as Valjean presses closer, a silent reassurance.

"It is agreeable, now, to have this. To be bound here." His eyes are on the shelves as he says it, but then they turn back to Javert. At once it is very difficult to breathe. "Once it would have terrified me. But no longer.”

“That pleases me to hear,” Javert says, his voice sounding queerly strained.

Valjean shifts his arm. Javert feels it becomes they still sit so close; but nothing can prepare him for the warm roughness of Valjean’s fingers settling over his hand, a shackle, a burning brand.

“It is strange to say,” Valjean says softly. “But I am glad to have you here, as well.”

Javert cannot speak; he does not dare to trust his voice not to betray the shudder which travels through his entire being; the likes of which he has not felt since the Pont au Change. Only there is no damp and icy breath of hell on his face; no tumult of water churning below. Only Valjean’s fingertips resting on the backs of his knuckles, Valjean’s smile pinning him in place like a dagger through his heart.

Javert looks down. He cannot bear that gaze; he stares at their hands instead, Valjean’s marked with the pale lines of scars, the tendons and veins standing out more starkly beneath the skin than they would have when he was young; and beneath it, Javert’s, dusted with dark hairs he has always known are unsightly, which seem to bother Valjean not at all. In a moment Valjean will pull away, and perhaps then Javert might try to breathe; might marshal whatever damning expressions are crossing his face at this very instant.

And then Valjean squeezes his hand, one final time; the pressure is gone entirely.

“Well then,” Valjean says, speaking too quickly himself. “I suppose we ought to get back to it.”

“Yes,” Javert says, his voice a humiliating croak; but Valjean is not looking at him now, and so perhaps it passes unnoticed as they return to their separate book piles.

Once, when Javert glances over his shoulder, he sees Valjean running the palm of his thumb over the inside of his own hand, as if tracing some unfamiliar topography. As if burned, Javert jerks his fingers away from where they have been tracing the backs of his own knuckles, ghosting after the path of Valjean’s touch; grateful that Valjean cannot see the unruly and ridiculous heat which climbs into his face.

Foolishness. That he can accept so much from Valjean, and still want more. What a selfish wretch he has turned out to be.

 

* * *

 

The evening begins as many others have.

They sit down to a simple meal, Valjean shooing his housekeeper back to her own home and assuring her that as always, he is capable of washing a few plates. Javert speaks of his day, what he saw on the streets, including a long anecdote involving an old woman who tried, fruitlessly, to sell him a goat; Valjean speaks of his visit with Cosette, of a late afternoon in the garden. After dinner they retire, as has become their custom, to the library, where Javert sets to sorting the books while Valjean settles on the couch, laying his book on his lap and smoothing his hands down the open pages with a gentle smile, as if soothing the words into stillness.

The room is quiet, but for the shuffle and scrape of paper and leather bindings as Javert works. He is attempting a new system based around content rather than author or title; as he is hardly familiar with most of Valjean’s library, he would normally solicit his friend for clarification on the nature of each text. But tonight he does not wish to disrupt him, and so he flips through them himself instead.

From beyond the window, out in the garden, the sound of insects chirping. At times the stillness is broken by the turn of a page or the sound of Valjean’s sigh, quietly satisfied, at whatever he is reading. Once there is even a chuckle. Javert realizes his hands have gone still in their task; he is thinking of what Cosette had said that day at lunch.

And so it happens that the next time Valjean lets out one of those happy sighs, the question escapes Javert’s lips before he is even aware he is going to ask. “You may read it, if you wish.”

In the silence at his back he can feel the weight of Valjean’s gaze, and sure enough when enough time passes he cranes his head around to meet it. “I _am_ reading it,” Valjean says.

“I meant aloud.” The way that Valjean blinks at the suggestion immediately makes Javert feel as if he has overstepped; he shakes his head, turning back to the pile of books before him. “Only if you wish.”

“I am only surprised that you would suggest it,” Valjean says after a moment. “You are not fond of reading—”

“This is not reading,” Javert snaps. “It would be listening.”

“Hmm. I suppose you are right.” Mercifully, Valjean does not try to discuss the issue further. There is the sound of him shifting on the couch cushions; he clears his throat. Then, he begins to read.

It is only after a couple of sentences that Javert understands he has miscalculated. For the gentle weave of Valjean’s voice is hypnotic as it paints the air; Javert is barely aware of the syllables themselves, the way he would barely be aware of each individual wave in the ocean. At one point he glances down and realizes he has thoroughly shuffled the pile of books before him beyond saving. He sits back and merely listens, head tilted back as he stares up at the wall of books before him, his knees growing sore as Valjean’s voice breaks over him like a prayer.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Javert is putting on his coat in the entryway while Valjean watches, silent. Something has manifested between them over the course of Valjeans’ reading, or perhaps the tentative awkwardness between them afterward. There is something unsaid, or undone; yet as he stands before the door, mute as a fool, Javert cannot give it voice or action. The book is still tucked under Valjean’s arm. Javert wishes he would open it, and keep reading; he almost asks. Instead he lifts his hat from the stand, places his hand on the doorknob.

“Well then.” He clears his throat, and straightens his shoulders. Honesty is easier when delivered as a formal report. “Your reading tonight was satisfactory. I would not be opposed to another such session in the future.”

“That would please me,” Valjean says.

Javert remains still, frozen in the act of leaving and not wholly certain what he’s waiting for. Valjean licks his lips. His eyes appear very dark.

“Next time, then,” Javert says at last, though the words taste bitter on his tongue. “Goodnight, Valjean.”

“Goodnight, Javert.” Valjean’s voice is quiet as he turns to leave, trailing after him like listless fingers. Outside the night is cold; the stars spill across the sky, at once alien and familiar. They offer him no sense of stability tonight; no guidance on his way.

When he steps back into his own room a short while later the darkness rushes forward to greet him like a love-starved pet. There is his bed, neatly made; there his shelf of law books, untouched for months. There is a thin coating of dust on his writing desk, where he has not sat for over a week. He does his work at Valjean’s kitchen table now. Even with him standing within it, this room feels empty.

Javert goes to sleep in sheets as cold as ice, but his dreams are warm as a fever and smell of paper and candle wax.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, it becomes the routine. Whereas weeks before Javert had scarcely conceived of the idea that Valjean might one day read to him, now it is a blessing he receives almost every day. He passes the evenings with Valjean's steady voice weaving around him, as warm and comforting as the heat from the fire at his back. His efforts with Valjean’s bookshelves slow to a crawl, and Javert cannot bring himself to care.

It is on one such night that Javert stands up in the midst of Valjean’s reading, his movements slow and ginger. Valjean glances up at him, his voice trailing off as Javert approaches. “My knees are growing sore,” Javert explains as he gingerly settles down beside him on the settee. “I’ll give them a reprieve for a moment.”

“We ought to find you a proper stool to sit on,” Valjean says, frowning.

“I will survive,” Javert says, and gestures back to the book before Valjean can continue the debate as he so clearly wants to. “Continue.”

Valjean’s expression suggests this point of contention is hardly settled, but with a shake of his head he bows back over the pages. “ _True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations: it is seen with white hairs and is always young in the heart_ ,” he continues reading, the words measured and soft as a song.

Javert rubs some feeling back into his stiff knees, only half listening. He is equally aware of the crackle of the fire as it burns lower, the slide of Valjean’s calloused fingers over the paper pages, the way the light catches the silver curl of Valjean’s hair by his cheekbones. As Javert sits back, their shoulders brush; when Valjean does not tense or even falter in his reading, Javert allows himself the indulgence of not pulling away.

It may be true that Javert has grown fond of Valjean’s voice even in daily speech; but now, like this, it is captivating. He has never before known a friend; never known this sensation of devotion, of wanting to spend as much time he is able with another person; of wanting to be close to him, of never quite being able to get close enough; of craving the warmth of Valjean’s hand settled on his back, the solidity of his shoulder beside him. This deep well of trust, and regard, and warmth that settles deep into his bones. He drifts on it like the current of a river, floating farther and farther away.

It is difficult to say what causes Javert to wake. He gives a little start, his muscles still heavy with sleep—had Valjean spoken? But it is silent now, no musical weaving of Valjean’s voice. Javert’s eyes are closed; he does not remember shutting them. Nor can he imagine why his body feels so heavy. His cheek rests on something solid and warm; there is a pressure on his shoulder, stroking to his elbow and back. He wants nothing more than to sink back into the warm softness from where he has emerged, to remain here in this feeling forever.

Yet he forces his eyes open, and looks upon the library turned askew. He has fallen asleep, then; pitched over in the midst of Valjean’s reading like a milk-addled child. He is just about to gather his wits enough to right himself and offer an apology when the surface beneath him shifts, and the full extent of his circumstances becomes sharply, horrifyingly clear.

 _His head is in Valjean’s lap._ He needs nothing so much as to pull back, to lunge away from this awful liberty he has unknowingly taken; and yet there is nothing he is less capable of doing than that. He cannot move, he cannot breathe. Valjean’s thigh is warm against the side of his face; he can see his own hand resting on Valjean’s knee, gripping too tight.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Valjean’s voice is rough. There is something fearful in the way he strokes Javert’s arm, some light trembling in his fingers that shames Javert to the bone. A shiver wracks Javert’s body; still he is paralyzed. Valjean’s hand stills on his arm. Javert hears him drag in a ragged breath.

“I am sorry,” Valjean whispers; and this, that apology, when it is Javert who has crossed the careful boundaries between them, Javert who has made his friend afraid again—it is the wrongness of that which finally gives Javert the power to move, to lift himself up and face whatever will lie in Valjean’s expression.

“Do not apologize,” he says, his voice an animal thing. “You are not—”

And then, Javert stops.

For there is no anger in Valjean’s face, no disgust at Javert’s closeness. A flush colors his cheeks and seeps all the way down his neck, disappearing into his cravat; his eyes are wide with fear, but it is not directed at Javert at all. His mouth is slightly open,a thin seam of darkness between his lips; the hand which had lay upon Javert’s arm has followed him upright, where it remains, gripping with its old strength.

It is not, however, until Valjean shifts his position slightly that Javert’s eyes return to his lap, and the full nature of Valjean’s discomfort becomes clear.

“I am sorry,” Valjean says again, his tone growing more frantic. There is nothing he can do to hide the tenting of his trousers, and so he does not attempt to; his other hand is a fist upon the book set aside on the cushions. “I did not intend—I could not—good God. Forgive me.”

The fist unclenches and raises to Valjean’s face, covering his expression. Javert is frozen once more, only now it is different; now it is the silence before the first note of the orchestra, the pause between beats of a heart. Javert’s hand, as he raises it, trembles. But it finds its way to Valjean’s shoulder all the same.

“Valjean. Take your hand away.”

The noise he makes is akin to a sob, muffled by his fingers; but after a long moment Valjean lets them fall, and reveals the agony of his expression, his eyes shut.

Javert finds his eyes traveling between Valjean’s face and the evidence of his physical interest. Could such a miracle occur—that what Valjean wants of him is precisely what Javert most wishes to give? He knows all too well that he is undeserving of such a benediction. And yet, for Valjean, he might try to accept it.

His fingers slide up from shoulder to neck, until their tips are just brushing the line of Valjean’s jaw. Valjean’s mouth opens with a short intake of breath, and Javert feels it beneath his shaking hand.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he says, and at last Valjean opens his eyes; turns his head more firmly to the press of Javert’s fingers to fix him with an expression of disbelief. It is that which does it, in the end; for the idea that Valjean should find it so strange that Javert might want him is unbearable. Javert leans in without thought or understanding, knowing only that he is set on a course and must see it to its end.

His lips press to Valjean’s, stiff, awkward. Valjean’s mouth is soft and it opens slightly, with a sharp breath; Javert starts to pull back and finds Valjean following him, pressing forward, their mouths fitting together like blind and tender things bumping along in the dark, uncertain, full of clumsy need.

When they finally break away they are both breathing like runners. “Oh,” Valjean says, the syllable tearing out of him on a shuddering breath. “I did not think…”

“Neither did I.” The action of pressing his palm to Valjean’s cheek should not wake every nerve the way it does; and yet if the way Valjean’s eyelids flutter is any sign, he is not alone in the feeling. Javert wants to kiss him again and so he does. Brief, and only as chaste as inexperience demands. Javert wants so many things and for the first time he considers the idea of having them. He is unworthy, yes—but if Valjean wants them, too, then Javert will deny him nothing.

“Will you remain here tonight?”

Javert blinks, and immediately Valjean colors. “To sleep,” he says quickly, on a thick tongue. “Nothing more.”

In the pause which follows, Javert finds himself walking through that which is surely to come; how he will remove his cravat and waistcoat at Valjean’s bedside, and watch Valjean do the same; how he will climb into bed beside Valjean’s warmth, be permitted to lay his hands upon a shoulder, an elbow, perhaps even Valjean’s waist; how he might close his eyes to the deepening sound of Valjean’s breath, and know that he will wake to it, to this man who is neither devil nor angel yet still somehow greater and more terrifying than either.

“To sleep,” he agrees, and the smile which bursts over Valjean’s face is the only dawn he will ever crave again. And then, lest Valjean get the wrong idea of his ultimate intentions, a wry smile twists half of Javert’s lips. “For tonight.”

The color which rises once more to Valjean’s face is fetching. Javert could enjoy the challenge of calling it back as often as possible. But for now, he allows Valjean’s hand to twine with his own; allows himself to be led down the hallway by the light of a silver candlestick, to the room where he and Valjean will find their well-earned rest.

A more sentimental man might have harbored some foolish imagining of being led tenderly into salvation. Javert has no need for such fancies. He is here with Valjean, and by some unlikely miracle, they are happy. It is enough.

Yes, it is far more than enough.

 

* * *

 

“This is the last of it,” Javert says, setting the crate down without care. It is heavy; of course Valjean had offered to carry it and of course Javert had refused. So it is with them.

“Is that all?” Valjean’s hand settles in the center of his back. Though they’ve been sharing these casual touches for months, their meaning in the past two weeks has shifted; now Valjean’s palm can summon a ravenous heat in him even through two layers of clothing.

“You saw my rooms,” Javert says. “There was not much to begin with.”

Valjean nods, staring at the crate. The top is open; the spines of Javert’s law books are lined up inside like a bed of cigars, dark and leathery. The final piece of Javert’s life, transplanted now into Valjean’s home. It is all agreed on; he will have Cosette’s old room as his own, but in practice he does not expect to spend much time there at all. Not when he has grown quite comfortable in the warmth of Valjean’s bed, the weight and strength of Valjean’s arm flung over his waist in sleep.

Valjean’s fingers trail contemplatively over the spines of Javert’s books. He looks up with a broadening smile. “You’ve only just got the library how you like it, Javert. Surely you wouldn’t want to disrupt it with an addition.”

“Any worthwhile system must be able to cope with change.”

Valjean’s arm loops into his own. The bloom of warmth is like nothing he thought he would ever know.

“Very well,” Valjean says, pressing his lips to the place on Javert’s cheek where the whiskers do not obscure skin. “We will find a place for them together.”


End file.
